


i get that i don't get it

by rosytonics



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Character Study, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Jack is a good dad, Pre-Accident, Religion, Trans Male Character, trans author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 22:18:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17394713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosytonics/pseuds/rosytonics
Summary: Arm dragging behind him, Jack stumbles through the front door after a spectacular loss in the ring and finds his daughter’s hair in a pile on the kitchen floor.Being a single dad means that Jack Murdock's life hits him with a ton of curveballs. But this might be the hardest one yet.





	i get that i don't get it

**Author's Note:**

> hello!!! i'm very excited to share this work with everyone! writing this piece was really personal and intimate, because i'm trans and grew up in a city with my single dad, in a catholic home. i didn't come out until i was older, but i wanted to create something special for matt and jack, where there's no judgment, and kid matt can be who he needs to, and gets all the love and support from his dad. i also wanted to include religious support, because a conversation about being trans with a nun really changed my outlook on things, and it meant the world to me! religious support is so important to a lot of lgbt people, and i wanted to make sure matt got that! 
> 
> this is a character study of jack as a father more than anything else, and maybe it's also a little bit of wish fulfillment :') 
> 
> please let me know what you think, and if you like it!
> 
> (P.S. the title is from "secret for the mad" by dodie!)

Arm dragging behind him, Jack stumbles through the front door after a spectacular loss in the ring and finds his daughter’s hair in a pile on the kitchen floor. His eyes, hazy and unfocused, struggle to land on any part of the scene and _stay_. But his mind is still at Fogwell’s, blissfully blank and embroiled in fire; like hot coals, jumbling around in his head. The Devil’s retreating, slipping into Jack’s mouth and up his nose; it gathers in his stomach and the hot steam rises back into his head, locked away for the next fight.

 

He’ll get it next time. He’ll win, not just survive, and come home to his baby girl with a title other than _Big Fat Loser_. 

 

With the Devil dormant, Jack’s eyes and ears finally regain control of his body. Mrs. Lombardo—the old Sicilian who lives upstairs and looks over Jack’s daughter during fight nights—has a scream like a clanging bell, and it makes his ears ring. It’s the first thing that really grabs him by the nuts and throws him into the present. 

 

To be honest, he’d prefer the ring. 

 

She’s yelling, hands waving and pointing wildly from the long tresses of red hair littering the floor, to Jack, to his daughter. 

 

“What have you done, you stupid girl?!” Mrs. Lombardo’s finger shoots in Jack’s direction again. “Why don’t you tell your father what you’ve done, eh!?” 

 

His baby girl’s big, pretty eyes fill with fresh tears—and, stubborn as a mule, she lifts her chin. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” she protests, voice shaking as she looks at him. And God, there’s nothing Jack hates more than the sight of her crying. He’d run barefoot across hot coals and sleep on a bed of nails every night for the rest of his life if it meant never having to see her cry again. “It’s my hair! I can do what I want!” 

 

“Pah!” Mrs. Lombardo throws her hands in the air and turns to Jack. “I’m sorry—I put her to bed, and then I take a rest on the couch”—

  
“You _fell asleep_ on the couch,” his daughter points out. 

 

Mrs. Lombardo doesn’t seem to hear, too wrapped up in her own fury to pay attention to much else. “I take a rest on the couch, and a while later I hear _clip, clip, clip_ —and what do I come out to find, Jack?!”

 

Jack runs a hand through his hair and winces when the heel of his palm accidentally brushes down on a fresh cut above his eyebrow. Usually he tries to get himself stitched up before he comes home, but it’s late, and he’s tired, and he’ll deal with it in the morning. “Lemme guess,” he offers, “She was cutting her hair.” 

 

“She was cutting her hair!” Mrs. Lombardo screams, not loud enough to wake the rest of the building, but loud enough to make his daughter flinch. She scowls and sighs in defeat. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She used to be so well behaved, and now she’s…!” She gestures to the heap of hair on the kitchen floor. “I just don’t know, Jack.”

 

“It’s okay, Mrs. Lombardo.” He sets an awkward but (hopefully) reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Kids get into stuff. It happens.” Jack begins casually ushering her towards the door. “It’ll grow back, it’s fine, I’ll bring you a bottle of Amaro once I get paid for your trouble, okay? Thanks again, bye.” He closes the door quickly and locks it before leaning against the wood. His brain feels like a punching bag and the rest of him feels even worse. Fuck. 

 

The light _clink_ of the scissors on the kitchen table and the scuff of a chair’s legs across the floor brings him back to the kitchen. His daughter’s sitting at the table in a ball, arms wrapped around her legs and knees pulled tight to her chest. She’s got her face hidden, pressed into the crook of her arm. His ears might be ringing, but he can still hear her sniffling. 

 

“Hey…” Jack sighs softly and limps towards the table. Grimacing, he kneels down next to her and sets a warm, comforting hand on her back. “Shh, hey.” His fingers travel up her spine and he cradles the back of her head gently. Her hair, once long and soft, is choppy and clumpy against the base of her skull. It’s gotta be at least five different lengths throughout, but Jack doesn’t know what he expected. She’s eight, and she didn’t exactly go to cosmetology school. “What’s this all about, huh?” Burying her head even further into her arms, she retreats and grows still and quiet. Jack doesn’t push it, but keeps running his fingers through her hair. “I ain’t mad.” 

 

Her head turns a little, and she hesitantly meets his eyes. “You’re not?” 

 

“I’m a little confused,” he admits, because he doesn’t know how to sugarcoat things, and honesty is probably the best policy, “But I ain’t mad.” She seems to relax a little, propping her chin up onto her knees instead of hiding. However, she still looks sullen, eyes red-rimmed and weepy. “Do you know why you cut your hair?” 

 

She nods and wipes the snot from under her nose with the back of her hand. It’s a step in the right direction. 

 

Jack scratches her scalp lightly with his blunt nails. “Do you wanna tell me why?” Then, he pauses. “You don’t gotta, but it’s okay to tell me. I won’t be mad.” 

 

A breath passes between them before she leans forward into his arms. “I hate my hair,” she whispers, hands clenched in his sweatshirt, voice tiny. “I don’t wanna be a girl…! I hate it!” 

 

He’s halfway through trying to figure out how to delicately ask what the Hell that means when she lets out a muffled sob into his shoulder. Jack scoops her into his arms and decides that that’s enough questions for tonight. 

 

“Come on, baby g”—He bites his tongue. He’s not sure what to call her, but based on tonight’s events, _baby girl_ probably isn’t the best thing.— “Kid. Come on, kid. Let’s get you ready for bed.” 

 

 

…

 

It’s probably a phase. That’s what Mrs. Lombardo’s eldest daughter, Rita, tells him when he drops off the Amaro the next evening. _Some girls are just tomboys_ , she says, and it makes sense. Rita’s a good lookin’ woman, with long, curly hair and big hoop earrings. She wears purplish red lipstick and pops her gum. She’s nice to Jack, and always knows how to make his daughter smile. 

 

Maybe if Jack had the time, they could…

 

_If_ he had time, which he _don’t_. So it’s not worth wondering about. 

Some girls are just tomboys, so Jack tries not to worry. His daughter’s never had an interest in dolls, or princesses, or pretty things. She spends most of her time with her nose in a book, quick eyes flickering back and forth rapidly across the page. Jack’s never been much of a reader himself, and he worries that it shows. Sometimes, she asks him what a word means, and all he can do is shrug, scratch his head, and tell her that he oughta get her a dictionary so she can learn how to look stuff up. Half the stuff she says blows right by him. 

 

When she’s older, he knows he’s not gonna be any good at helping her with her homework. Whenever he reads, the the words warp around on the page, all layered up. Letters twist backwards and crawl upside down, and sometimes words just seem to get up and walk away. It makes his head hurt, so bedtime stories usually don’t last long. 

 

After he drops off the Amaro, Jack takes his daughter for lunch in the park. After the bills, and the groceries, and paying Mrs. Lombardo, he can still scrounge up a few crumpled dollars to pay for some hot dogs and a Coke to split between them. They sit crisscross applesauce on the edge of Bethesda fountain and eat under the summer sun, swapping jokes back and forth. 

 

“Hey, Dad.” She takes a bite of her hot dog, chews, and swallows. He might not be a good reader, but at least he taught her to be polite. “What building in the whole city has the most stories?” 

 

Jack wrinkles his eyebrows in thoughts. “The most stories…Huh.” He knows it’s a trick question, but he also knows that if he answers wrong, she’ll be excited to share the punchline with him. “I dunno. The Empire State Building? That’s pretty tall.” 

 

She grins and shakes her head. Her front teeth both fell out last month, so she looks all gummy and cute as a button. “No…The library!” 

 

Laughing, Jack slaps his forehead. “Oh! _Stories!_ ” He taps her on her freckled nose. “You’re one smart cookie, y’know that?” 

 

Her smile only grows wider. “Yeah, I know.” 

 

It makes Jack proud to hear her say that. There’s a lot of things that he’s probably doing wrong, and even more things that he can’t afford to do right—but if he can’t do anything else, at least he’s teaching her to be sure of herself. The best thing she can be going into the world is confident. They finish eating and she passes him her hot dog wrapper. He balls up the wrappers and napkins and stuffs them into the Coke can, which he tosses into a nearby garbage can. She takes his hand as they head back to the street. 

 

“Can we go to the library later?” she asks. Her hand is so tiny in his, and it reminds Jack how young she is. Sometimes she talks so big and acts like such a little grown-up that he forgets that she’s only eight unless she’s crying or clinging. 

 

“Yeah, sure,” he replies, “But first…” He reaches for her hair and gives it a tousle. “Let’s go to the barbershop to fix up this mop of yours.” 

 

She laughs and pushes at his hand. “Hey! Quit it!” 

 

They’ve never been to this shop before. Jack isn’t sure he could bear the judgmental glances he might get if he brought her to the shop he frequents in the Kitchen. This one’s right off the Harlem line, too far for anyone to know them, but still close enough that it’s not much of a hike. The fellas there are real casual. They probably see kids with fucked up do-it-yourself hairdos every day.Nobody there makes Jack feel like a bad parent, nor does anyone fret about his daughter’s botched haircut. The barber just sits her down in the chair, looks her over, and asks her what she wants. 

 

“I wanna look like a boy,” she announces as the barber drapes the cape over her front and secures it around the back of her neck. 

 

“A boy, huh?” asks the barber, sending a glance in Jack’s direction. For a second, he’s sure that he’s about to get another earful, just like the one he got from Mrs. Lombardo. Instead, the barber smiles real big. “So you want it short? Just like your old man?” 

 

Jack’s daughter beams and gives a proud little wiggle. “Yeah. Just like his.” 

 

Bit by bit, the hair comes off. The chunks even out and the edges get smooth. By the time the barber’s done doing his magic, Jack’s daughter looks like someone new. She always looks at least a little confident, but now she also looks _comfortable_. She runs her fingers through her short hair as she looks over it in the mirror. 

 

“Lookin’ sharp, kid,” Jack comments as he sets a hand on her shoulder. He lowers his face next to hers. In the mirror, it’s like his own face is looking back at him twice; they look like twins. “Whaddaya think?” 

 

Her hand rubs along the short, soft fuzz at the back of her head. “It’s good,” she announces, “I like it.” 

 

As Jack’s paying the barber, his daughter sits down in the waiting area and makes a friend. 

 

A little black girl sits down next to her and crisscrosses her legs. “Hi,” she greets, “My name’s Misty. What’s yours?” When Jack’s daughter introduces herself, Misty wrinkles her eyebrows in confusion. “That’s a girl’s name. Are you a boy or a girl?”

 

Jack holds his breath and waits for his kid to answer. 

 

“I used to be a girl,” she explains, “But I don’t feel like one now.” 

 

Misty says, “Okay.” Then, she asks, “Do you wanna come play outside with me later?” 

 

_Some girls are just tomboys_ , Jack reminds himself, _some girls are just tomboys_. 

 

… 

 

Everyone else starts to notice that something’s not quite right with Jack’s daughter when she refuses to wear a dress to church. Jack doesn’t force her; he asked her this morning if she wanted to wear one, she said no, and he said okay. But now, sitting in the pews, he can _feel_ how underdressed people think she is. Everyone else has got on their Sunday best, but his daughter seems more than content in jeans and a sweater. 

 

A few old women whisper amongst themselves throughout the service, and even though Jack can’t hear what they’re saying, he has a feeling it ain’t good. 

 

People talk about him under their breath all the time, especially in church. It’s kinda fucked up, gossiping about other people in God’s house, but people are people, and people talk. It’s usually pity stuff—all _“Poor Jackie Murdock, raisin’ that little girl all by himself”_ and the like. He can only imagine what they’re saying now. “ _Poor Jackie Murdock can’t even dress his own kid_. _Poor Jackie Murdock’s daughter acts like a boy because she doesn’t have a mother to teach her to be a proper lady. Poor Jackie, poor Jackie.”_ Whatever. He focuses his eyes and ears on Father Lantom and pretends it doesn’t bother him. 

 

And if he punches his feelings out later in an empty gym, well. That’s between just him, the punching bag, and God. 

 

After mass, everyone meets downstairs for coffee and donuts like they do every Sunday. Jack fills up his plate and waves politely with his mouth full at anyone who bothers to say hello. His daughter sits at the table with a few other kids from their parish. None of them ask about her hair, or about how she’s dressed. Instead, they talk about those little trading cards with the weird looking animals on them. 

 

Father Lantom appears at Jack’s side with a coffee. He always says that someday, they’re gonna get one of those real fancy coffee machines that makes the stuff with the foam. But the Church is going through a rough patch, just like everyone else, so the old percolator will have to do. 

 

“Something’s bothering you, Jack.” 

 

Jack sets the donut in his hand back on the plate. “What told you that, Father?” he asks, “Heavenly intuition?” 

 

Father Lantom smiles, and his eyes have something wise in them that Jack doesn’t understand. He sees through Jack like he’s a slip of parchment paper. It leaves him feeling naked and a little too exposed. “I’ve got working eyes. That’s all I need.” 

 

Jack leans against the wall. “That obvious, huh?” He sighs. “Yeah, things are…I don’t know what’s up with the kid. It came outta nowhere.” 

 

Father Lantom nods. “I noticed she got a haircut. Was that her idea, or yours?” 

 

“Hers.” Jack stares down at his plate. “Came home from a fight on Wednesday, and she’d just…chopped it all off. Said she hated it.” Talking about it lifts a three-ton weight from his chest, and, _whoosh_ , it’s like he can breathe again. He still doesn’t feel _great_ , because his kid’s not feeling great, and he can’t figure out what’s wrong. But it’s good to have someone to talk to. “She said she…” Jack lowers his voice to a near-whisper.“She said she hates bein’ a girl, and that she don’t know who she is anymore.” 

 

What’s Father Lantom gonna to say to that? What’s _anyone_ gonna say to that? Probably that Jack’s a bad parent, first and foremost. That his daughter needs a mother, and that it’s because she doesn’t have one that she’s like this. That he’s so bad taking care of her that it’s messed her up real bad. It’s what everyone’s thinking, anyway. It’s what Jack thinks sometimes. He knows that he ain’t enough for his baby girl, that he doesn’t have enough money or enough softness to give her the best life. He braces himself for the judgement. 

 

It never comes. 

 

Instead, Father Lantom looks at his daughter, takes a sip of coffee, and says, “That must be lonely.” He sets a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “For both of you.” 

 

“Yeah.” Jack lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “It sure is.” 

“Why don’t you stay a little later today?” Father Lantom offers, “And we can talk about it, the four of us.” The fourth, of course, being God. God never talks when Jack and his daughter have meetings with Father Lantom.

 

But then again—Jack’s not exactly tuned into the divine the way he thinks he should, so maybe God never shuts His mouth and he just can’t hear it. 

 

… 

 

Later that afternoon, the three of them sit around Father Lantom’s small kitchen table, mugs of hot cocoa warming their hands. A painting of Jesus hangs on the wall next to the table, his hand lifted in a three-finger blessing. It serves as a reminder that there’s four people involved in this discussion, not just three. They make small talk as they sip their cocoa, and the elephant in the room grows larger and larger until it nearly takes up the entire kitchenette. Its trunk drapes over Jack and crushes him under its weight.

 

Father Lantom sets his mug down on the table and looks to Jack’s daughter. “Your father told me that you’ve been having trouble finding your path lately. Is that true?” She tenses up and immediately grows still. Father Lantom’s hand lands on her shoulder. “You’re not in trouble,” he promises, “No one will be upset with you if you tell us the truth.” 

 

Jack and the truth aren’t exactly friends. There are things he can’t tell their daughter—like how poor they are, and that her mother didn’t want her. However, he doesn’t know what he’d do if he inadvertently made his daughter feel like she can’t tell him anything and everything. 

 

“I know it’s bad,” she mumbles quietly, her shoulders twitching as she tries not to fidget. 

 

“No, it’s not bad.” Jack’s hand finds her shoulder and he tries to push as much love into his gaze as he can, like he’s got heart-shaped laser eyes. “We just don’t know how to help if we don’t know what’s wrong, yeah?” He rubs the back of her neck the way he does whenever she’s sick and puking up a storm. A knot builds in his stomach, and shit, he feels a little bit like puking too. “It’s okay, baby.” 

 

A deep breath shudders through her little body, and her voice climbs out of her mouth all raspy and weak. “I know I’m supposed to be a girl ‘cause God made me a girl—and I’m _trying_ really hard…” Her eyes, big and wet, find Jack’s, and she blinks rapidly to keep the tears back. “I promise! I’m really trying! But it’s not working…” Chin crumpled and lip wobbling, she drops her head. “I’m sorry.” 

 

Jack rubs her soft, short hair. “Hey. Look at us, okay?” He gestures to himself and Father Lantom—and then,pointedly, to the painting of Christ. “None of us are mad at you.” His vocabulary ain’t as big as he’d like it to be—but even if he knew every word in the English language, he’d never know how to articulate just how much he loves this kid, and how unconditionally. There’s nothing she could do that would make him love her any less. 

 

He loves her so much that it might kill him someday. 

 

Father Lantom takes her hand in his and gives it a squeeze. “God didn’t make you a boy or a girl,” he promises, “God made _you_ , whoever that is. Your body is…it’s temporary. It’s just a vessel to hold your soul. Who you are isn’t what you look like, or how you dress, or the length of your hair.” He releases her hand and gently pokes her chest, right over her heart. It gets her to smile, even if it’s shaky. “ _This_ is who you are.” 

 

The smile melts from her face, replaced by a twisted grimace. “But…I’m not who I should be.” 

 

“But you are, kid.” Jack rubs her shoulder again, trying to put what he can’t figure out to say into his touch. “All you gotta be in this world is good and kind, and you…” The words gather up into a ball in his throat. When he pushes them up, he feels like a cat yakkin’ up a fur ball. “You’re the kindest, and the most good person I’ve ever met, okay? And that’s all you gotta be.” She leans against him and he wraps his arms around her. His eyes and nose sting as he kisses the top of her head, burying his nose into her hair. “And I love you more than anythin’ in the whole world, you got that? _Always_.” 

 

He loved this kid long before she existed, and he’s gonna love her long after they’re both gone. No matter how many times his energy gets recycled through the universe, it’s always gonna carry his love for her like the breeze carries a balloon. He’ll love her when she’s an angsty teen, when getting hugs and kisses from Dad is _so embarrassing_ , and he’ll love her when she graduates high school _and_ college—because she’s one smart cookie, and there’s no way in Hell she ain’t getting into college. He’ll love her on her wedding day, whether she wears a dress or a suit, whether she marries a lady or a fella. He’ll love her until he’s fuckin’ six feet under, and it’ll radiate from his corpse like sunshine and make flowers bloom from below. 

 

He brushes her bangs from her face and kisses her temple as he sinks back into his chair. His hand stays on her back as support, as an anchor. He might be a broke loser, but he’s also her rock and her keeper. That’s the most important thing. If he’s not remembered for anything else, that’s fine, but when he goes, let people at least say he was a father. 

 

When Father Lantom speaks again, it’s with the same steady conviction driving his voice that he uses whenever he reads the Good Book at mass. He doesn’t waver. He’s _sure_. “And God’s love is unconditional. You’re not committing any sin by being who you are—the only sin is lying about it and hiding yourself.” His fingers wrap carefully around her arm. “Honesty will free you. You don’t have to hide, or carry this burden, because God sees your soul and He knows it’s beautiful just the way it is.” 

 

This kid’s soul is gonna change the world. 

 

Father Lantom squeezes her arm. “So. Who are you?” 

 

Jack waits with bated breath as she lifts her chin and pushes her shoulders back. This light seems to fill her from head to toe, propping her up with confidence and making her glow. 

 

She inhales, holds onto the breath for a tick, and then releases the truth on an exhale. “I’m a boy.” The whole energy surrounding Jack’s kid changes. Suddenly, it’s like he _fits_ into himself, like finally filling out a shirt that’s just a little too big. He seems brighter, taller, and stronger. “I’m a boy,” he says again, this time with more conviction. He’s not hesitant or scared anymore. It’s like his plane just landed—like for years it was just hovering over the landing strip, and now he’s _here_. 

 

Relieved, Jack sighs and smiles, wrapping an arm around his son. “Okay,” he replies softly, “It’s okay.” 

 

…

 

A week passes and the summer grows hot, hot, _hot_. Open fire hydrants spit an ongoing fountain of cold water onto the streets for the kids to jump in, and the low, mechanical whirring of fans and window A/C units buzzes beneath all the sounds of the city. Jack finds himself sweating so much that there’s no point in wearing a shirt at home. He walks around the apartment topless, occasionally opening up the freezer to shove his face inside. Popsicle sticks and wrappers litter the kitchen counter, and all that’s left in the box are the orange ones. Who the Hell likes orange popsicles, anyway? They taste like cough medicine, and the purple ones taste a little like NyQuil. Jack and his son always gravitate towards the red, but when those run out, purple is an okay substitute. 

 

Outside, his son splashes around one of the busted fire hydrants with a group of kids. Jack watches them from the window as he unwraps an orange popsicle. It tastes like being sick, but at least it’s cold. A frozen pizza cooks away in the oven, which makes the kitchen even _hotter_. Jack leans against the window only to be hit with a rush of humid air from outside. It smells just a little bit rotten—some people’s fridges in the neighborhood have been crapping out. The butcher shop down the road, the Irish one that gives Jack leftover steaks for an under-the-table-discount, lost their A/C last week. Until they got it fixed, the whole block stunk like spoiled meat. God only knows how much money they lost. 

 

They just had a baby, too. Her name is Candace, and she’s as plump as a fresh rump roast with fat, rosy cheeks. Jack makes a note to pay for everything full price next time he goes. Their sons are outside with Jack’s, basking in the cold water gushing onto the street. There’s two of them, both blonde with noses that turn up at the tip. The oldest’s the same age as Jack’s son, but they live just far enough away that they don’t go to the same school. He’s got a big, corny smile and a sense of humor like nothin’ else. He’s sitting next to Jack’s son on the curb, occasionally shoving his bare foot in front of the fire hydrant, the two of them laughing away. 

 

It’s good that his son has friends. Every kid needs friends, obviously—but it makes Jack happy to see that he’s being accepted by the other kids, especially other boys. None of them seem to be surprised at all, or treat him any differently. Once school starts up and Jack’s son starts third grade, things are gonna be different. Hopefully no one will give him a hard time, but if they do…

 

Well. Jack’s boy knows better than to fight back. 

 

The oven buzzer gives a shout and grabs his attention. He shuffles over and turns it off, plates the pizza, and slides it into the fridge to chill.

 

Jack returns to the window and sticks his head out. “Hey!” he calls out to the kids playing below. His kid doesn’t respond, too wrapped up in laughing at the butcher’s son’s joke—about _chicken butt_ of all things—to hear. “Hey”— He almost calls out his son’s name, but stops himself. It just doesn’t _suit_ him anymore, and he doesn’t want to humiliate him by callin’ out a girl’s name while he’s playing with his friends. That’s when it hits him. 

 

_Oh. My son is nameless. That ain’t good._

 

Jack raps his fist against the side of the window. “Hey, Murdock!” he hollers again, and sure enough, that gets his boy’s head perking up. Third time’s the charm, it seems. “Come inside! Dinner’s ready!” 

 

“Okay!”his son shouts back with a wave.

 

It’s not until there’s only a sliver of the pizza left and they’re full, happy, and satisfied that Jack brings up the name thing. 

 

“So.” He drags a napkin over his mouth, crumples it, and tosses it onto the paper plate. “We gotta come up with somethin’ new to call you, huh? Unless you wanna keep going by…” He trails off and gives a vague shrug. “I dunno. What do you think?” 

 

His son takes a bite of his crust. He always saves it for the end because he thinks it’s the best part. “I want a new name,” he replies, “But…I dunno what.” 

 

They spend the next half hour spitballing, tossing names back and forth. They start off normal, like _Josh_ and _Tyler_ , but as the clock ticks on, the names become more and more ridiculous. 

 

“Eugene?” Jack offers, to which his son gives a laugh. 

 

“What?!No!” 

 

“Hmm…” He gives a thoughtful rub of his chin. “Mortimer?” Another laugh from his son gives him the answer. “No, not Mortimer…Aha! I got it!” 

 

His son lifts his eyebrows. “You do?” he asks, “For real?” 

 

“Yeah yeah, of course. For real.” Jack reaches out and holds his son’s face in his hands. Laughter puffs against the inside of his lips, dying to get out. He presses his mouth into a thin, serious line to hold it back. “I’ll call ya… _Humperdinck_.” 

 

His kid roars with laughter until Jack thinks he might cry. A little chuckle slips past the gate of Jack’s lips, and within seconds, he too is wheezing and wiping at his eyes. The two of them attempt to make eye contact, but it only brings on another giggle fit. 

 

“Okay, okay. I’m serious now.” Jack reaches across the table and squeezes his son’s shoulder. “What are we gonna call you, kid? You don’t like your old name anymore, right?” His kid shakes his head so fervently that his head might pop off like a dandelion blossom. “Right…so what, then?” 

 

His kid shrugs and stares at the table. His fingers trace circles into the old wood, running along a spit in the middle before looping back up. “I don’t know,” he confesses, “Nothing really feels right…yet…It’s weird. It’s like I’ll know it when I hear it—kinda like a sign, I guess.” 

 

A sign. Jack lifts his head. A _sign_! Duh! 

 

“Hold on…hold on a second…” He points to his kid. “Stay there, I got an idea…” His socks slide across the kitchen floor until they meet the living room carpet. “I dunno why I didn’t think if it sooner!” Almost frantically, Jack fumbles through the bookshelf in their living room. They don’t have a ton of books, but the ones they have are worn and cracked down the spines. He trails his fingers across them until he hits leather, and pulls the Bible into his hands. 

 

“What’s that?” his son asks as Jack sets the Good Book onto the table. “Oh.” 

 

Jack flips open the Bible and slides it across the table in his son’s direction. “Find your favorite passage, okay?” For any other kid, it might be a heavy task, but his son is wicked smart and has already read the whole thing at least once. 

 

Thinking, he begins flipping through the pages. Then he flips more and more, sliding his fingers between a chunk of pages until he finds what he wants. He shoves his finger into the book’s gutter. “Here.” 

“Okay.” Jack hovers behind him and rubs his shoulder again. “Okay, now read it.” 

 

He’s heard it and read it so many times that by now, it must be muscle memory. His voice punches each word with conviction. He _believes_ it, every bit of it. “Blessed are the meek,” he reads, “For they shall inherit the Earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied.” The kid’s got a brain like no one Jack’s ever met, and his heart’s just as strong. Jack can’t predict everything his son will be—Hell, he didn’t even see the son thing coming—but he _can_ say, with complete certainty, that his kid’s gonna help people. His kid’s gonna _save_ people. “Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy.” His voice never wavers and he takes each word in his stride. “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.” 

 

Jack’s son looks up from the Bible and twists back in his chair to meet his father’s eyes. 

 

He pauses. 

 

Breathes. 

 

And speaks again, “Matthew, chapter five.” The words lift a weight off his chestand bring a smile to his face. 

 

“Matthew, huh?” Jack ruffles his hair. “Matthew Murdock—hey, it’s got kinda a ring to it, don’t you think?” 

 

His son lowers his face with a smile. “Yeah…It sounds clear, I guess, if that makes sense.” 

 

It doesn’t—but then again, none of this has made a lick of sense to Jack. He doesn’t get it, and he gets that he doesn’t get it, and that this is a part of his kid’s life that he’ll never understand. He doesn’t have to understand, he just has to listen, and he just has to love. And love, and love, and love, until it stops his heart—and then he has to love some more. But loving him is easy. He _makes_ it easy, just by existing. 

 

“Well.” Jack gently grabs his— _Matthew’s,_ ** _Matty’s_** —jaw and smacks a kiss to his cheek. “If it makes sense to you, that’s all that matters, right?” 

 

Matt rubs his cheek with a smile bright enough to power everyone’s lights for a week. “Yeah. That’s what matters.” 

 

Jack kneels down and offers Matt his hand. “So. I’m Jack. Nice to meet you.” 

 

“I’m Matt,” he replies, grasping his father’s hand and shaking it, “Matt Murdock.” 


End file.
